I was nervous. It was our first non-YMCA based team sport. Then there are the Soccer Mom Horror Stories that left me wondering if I would survive a season of cold shoulders, sweaters worn around shoulders and general nastiness. Turns out all the worry was for naught.

BigBrother enjoyed the experience thoroughly. When I say thoroughly, I mean that the kid ate, slept and dreamed soccer. He wants shirts with soccer balls on them. He wants to play soccer any time we go outdoors. He thinks soccer is the Be All And End All. Looks like we have a winner!

It helped that, once again, we had a great coaching experience. Coach M was kind, funny, encouraging and age appropriate in what he expected of his young players. I witnessed another team whose coach yelled things, in a not-just-to-be-heard-over-kids-voice but in an I’m-yelling-because-I’m-frustrated-with-you-voice (and trust me, I know the difference). I was so glad that he wasn’t our coach. Even LittleBrother took a liking to Coach M. I was beyond thankful for the positive leadership that BigBrother got to see in action.

As an added bonus, no one smoked at any of his soccer games. Not a one! That’s eight weeks of smoke free sporting events. I was in heaven.

As far as the whole Soccer Mom worries, I found it to be a load of malarkey. I’m not saying that I’m now best friends with every mom on BigBrother’s team. In fact, I maybe only talked to a total of three moms all seasons. And one grandma, whom I happen to know well. It’s not because I was shunning the ones I didn’t speak to. Or because I was buddy-buddy with the three moms I spoke to. Or because of any stupid Soccer Mom Stereotype silliness. Why wasn’t I concerned about any of that jazz? I was watching (and photographing) my son’s games. Period. I wasn’t there to make friends, though I wasn’t rude to anyone. I was there to cheer on my son, even when he kicked the ball toward the wrong goal. He was my priority. Not silly games. Not worrying if my hair looked all right. My son. End of discussion.

That mindset worked well for me. I had a drama free soccer experience. BigBrother scored two goals. His team only lost one game. He only cried once during an unfortunate knee-cap-to-his-head kerfuffle. End of season, medal in hand.

Will we sign him up next year? Yes, if he wants to. He’ll also play indoor soccer this winter… if he wants to. And I’ll keep enjoying watching him make crazy facial expressions and enjoy the snot out of running back and forth and back and forth because I know the real joy of a Soccer Mom: My kid sleeps so soundly the night of a game because he’s run off all of his excess energy.

Long live soccer, indeed.

Tales of a First Time Soccer Mom is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

We were once again blessed with great coaches. T-ball is for ages three to six in our area which, if you know kids, involves a wide range of physical ability, emotional readiness and other such issues. And when I say wide range I mean a chasm of differences were present in our teammates. Our coaches understood this fact and did a wonderful job at corraling, encouraging, teaching and making sure that the game remained fun. They did a great job at making sure the best and fastest players weren’t the only one getting time fielding the ball. In fact, in one game where BigBrother was doing exceptionally well, he did handed the ball that he had just fielded over to a girl who hadn’t had a chance to throw it to first base yet. Heart-swelling moment.

As per usual, there were some issues. The YMCA remains less than organized. The seven o’clock game is late for my boys and some of our other teammates. Less smoking is good but, really, I’d prefer no smoking at a t-ball game. In fact, while photographing one of the high school girls’ game, I saw that they have a no smoking sign at their field. It’s just common sense. We did get rid of some issues though: no mean kid that taunted BigBrother this year and, wait for it, no mean parents. Really, this was almost the perfect year.

As evidenced by this smile on the field:

Except for that one time that BigBrother took a ball to the chest.

He was okay. Just kind of stunned. It was like the time that he took the soccer ball straight to his leg in soccer this past winter. Those two experiences were more of a, “Wait, the ball can actually hurt me,” than true injuries. Still, the look on his face was quite sad.

The best part of the season was his number. He was number 15, the last number on our team. Every other game, he would either bat first or last. When he would bat last, they would call, “LAST BATTER,” and then BigBrother would get to round the bases after he hit the ball. Home run! Twice a game! Every other game! And the crowd goes wild! Or at least we did.

What wasn’t an issue at the beginning of the season slowly began to become an issue. LittleBrother was too young to play this season. He started out not really minding. We always took his glove and played catch on the sidelines. Eventually, he started asking to play, and, for awhile at least, he was content when we said he could play next year. In fact, the season ended on a decent note. No big fits. No whining. No running onto the field. I was pleased. Then we went to the pizza party where they received their trophies and LittleBrother lost it. “I want a trophy, TOOOOO.” I know it could have been much worse, but I still felt a little bit sorry for him. And my ear drums at that point.

Will we play t-ball next year? Yes. Am I looking forward to paying full price for two children as there’s no point in a five year old having a membership at the YMCA just to get the reduced price? (The yearly expenditure would equal the amount of difference between the two costs.) No. I’ll have to budget wisely in the month or so leading up to sign ups to make sure I can afford to send them both out on the field. I expect that next year should bring about some interesting sibling issues on the field.

I’m glad he played this year. I’m proud of what he accomplished.

I almost don’t know what to do with my Thursday night now. Except see Eclipse.

T-Ball 2010 Wrap-Up is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Now?

LittleBrother was always a fish. He would “swim” with his swimmies on, occasionally asking for help when he got tired. He wasn’t really a fan of putting his face in the water though and would sometimes panic if he thought you weren’t paying attention (which we always were).

I missed swimming lesson sign ups for all classes in our area. Though LittleBrother is technically too young, I have been informed by parents who are better than me that BigBrother should have already had two years of said classes under his swimming trunk elastic. I have failed yet again.

But do kids need swimming lessons?

I ask this not knowing the answer. I’m all about safety. I am 100% for children learning the importance of safety around water, how to properly swim and to learn to love and respect the water. But classroom settings, even in a pool, stress BigBrother out. In fact, the thought of swimming class stresses me out and both of my sons play heavily on how I react. Will swimming lessons be beneficial? Are they an absolute necessity?

I understand that my kids are still using floating devices and are therefore not technically swimming. I would never leave them unattended in their swimming devices just like I would never leave them alone without those helpful bits of floatie stuff. I’m not asking for permission to do so. What I’m wondering is if I have to shell out money for something I can technically teach the kids on my own or, really, that they can learn while in the pool with others.

This isn’t like the issue of organized sports. I believe they learn all kinds of things in a setting like t-ball (for which we have a year end pizza party tonight) or soccer (which went incredibly well this past winter). I think things like basketball camp can teach kids great skills that they can use in a team setting and even in real life. And, really, I’m not the one who should be teaching either of these kids how to properly handle a soccer ball with their feet seeing as how I never played. But I can swim and I can swim well. Can I teach them? Should I teach them? Will they learn from someone else better?

In short: did your kids take swimming lessons or did you teach them or a combination of the two or neither or… please chime in on my inner dialogue, okay?

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Do Kids Need Swimming Lessons? is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, visit Life Down Our Lane.]

Wordless Wednesday: T-Ball Pics at the Fire Station is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

(I’m sure I’ll talk more about this in the coming weeks. This was from his first game.)

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For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.

Wordless Wednesday: Our New Soccer Star is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

BigBrother fell into the “Itty Bitty” age group of three to five years old. As he had never experienced anything like this (structured game type setting), we began talking about it pretty early on. For Christmas, my parents got him a Little Tikes basketball hoop that we put up in the playroom (and that will move outside once this winter ick passes). The week leading up to his first practice, we talked it up and really drove home how fun it is to play a baksetball game with other kids.

The problem wasn’t with his excitement level. The problem was with the two weeks of practice (two 45 minute sessions on a Saturday). All 50 kids in his age group were in the gym at the same time. At the beginning, they all sat in a circle and stood to stretch. That was met with tears the first week. When they split them in half (which was still 25 kids!) for passing and shooting instruction, he was still overwhelmed that first week. In fact, the second week, while better, was still overwhelming for him.

We were beginning to doubt that he was ready for something of this structure. He loved his new basketball shoes and his water bottle. And he always ended the day with a smile on his face. But he just seemed overwhelmed. Still, we thought that maybe the difference of having only a team’s worth of kids at one time would make the difference and, so, on Saturday, we left the house for his first game. He seemed unsure but came along without tears.

He stood around for a bit, looking at the other kids. I helped him remember how to dribble. He passed with another child for awhile. A five year old girl came up to me and said, “Does he know how to play basketball” with a mouthful of attitude. I said, “Well, he’s only three,” with a smile on my face. She then informed us that she was the biggest and the “bestest” on the team. I just smiled and went back to helping BigBrother with his dribbling. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed!

Then the whistle blew.

They originally were going to put him on the court first but decided he could sit and watch for a few rotations first. (There were eight kids so three got to sit at any given time.) When it was finally his time, he shocked everyone and got right into it. The two times that he actually had the ball, he wasn’t really sure what to do but he was encouraged by his coaches to pass or shoot. They gave him time instead of stripping it away and giving it to one of the more learned kids. In fact, for the whole game, the coaches were very encouraging to all of the children (even their own). The coach on the bench was always sure to tell the kids that they did a great job. And afterward, the kids slapped high fives.

And BigBrother afterward? Was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He asked me today if he could play another basketball game. He can’t wait until his next game (which I don’t have the heart to tell him won’t be this coming weekend because of a gymnastics meet in the gym). FireDad and I are very relieved. If the game had ended in total failure and/or tears, we likely wouldn’t have continued on with the season. But seeing how happy he was and knowing that he got some great exercise and learning done in the process, we are pleased with how this has gone.

While I’m sure non-YMCA programs are just as good, I have a feeling that this one is just right for BigBrother. It’s more about learning about teamwork and fun than the act of winning. One little boy, who mouthed off to the five-year-old-girl earlier, mentioned something about being a loser and was told that no one who tries is a loser. And that’s a good lesson to learn. We’ve also learned as parents to go at an experience like this with an attitude of fun, acknowledge their fears and to allow them some space to watch and make their own decision.

I mean, come on. Look at this face (taken immediately after the game).

Yes, I think that we made the right decision.

Our First Experience with Sports is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, for those who aren’t in the know, and as such, I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. It’s true. They’re awful. But when you’re from Pittsburgh, you tend to look past the doom and gloom and find that silver lining. The silver lining, of course, being PNC Park. (Of course, I was still able to find that silver lining at Three Rivers, but, you’ve got to admit… PNC Park is swanky.) FireDad somehow escaped the love of the heinous teams of the state in which he was born and raised and in which we now live and raise our children. He, too, is a Pirates fan.

He’s also a fan of sandwiches with french fries on them, so, it’s really win-win. (Yes, Primanti Brothers has a restaurant at the stadium. See? Totally win-win.)

And while we had a great night (because the Pirates won in extra innings!), I’ve been mulling something over since we left the stadium that night. And by mulling it over, I do mean that I’ve been stewing over it and getting angrier and angrier. And now? It’s time to rant.

The past two years that we have made it out for a game, we have been seated in front of, next two and/or behind the Most Inconsiderate Fans Ever. This year, as we attended the game on Fire Fighter’s Night, I figured there would be some camaraderie, some laughter and a night of baseball among brothers. The guy seated directly behind me had a different idea. Apparently he and his crew had been drinking in the parking lot for four hours prior to the first pitch. And his language showed it.

FireDad and I decided, even prior to that first pitch, that if we took one sip of beer every time the guy behind us called the Cubs, the Pirates, his friends, other fans, the umpire or the Parrot a “bum,” we would have been rip-roaring drunk by the bottom of the first inning. Everything that happened warranted use of the word “bum.” Cubs pitcher walked our guy? He was a bum. Umpire called a Pirate out? He was a bum. Pirates batter struck out? He was a bum. The Cubs fans seated in front of FireDad and I stood up to cheer? They were bums.

Now, the word itself doesn’t really strike me, while writing this, as overly offensive. And, by itself, even at the loud volume with which it was screamed, it would have been tolerable. But it wasn’t just the word all by its lonesome. We had some big-f-word bums. And you know if he’s dropping the f-bomb, all other words are “fair play” as well. You know, even though the announcer says, prior to that first pitch, that the ball park is a family environment and foul language will not be tolerated.

I never said anything to the bum himself because I learned never to fight with someone who is drunk. But I started to think. And as I thought, I started to get mad.

I went to Three Rivers with regularity as I was growing up. My Dad loved a baseball game and I loved anything that my Dad took me to, especially if it involved nachos. I grew up understanding the game and played softball myself (pitcher) for eleven years. I want to share that same kind of love with my boys. But how am I supposed to take them to a game when bums like that are always sitting around us? Now, granted, we were sitting pretty darn close on the first base line (no foul balls; bummer). Looking up to “Peanut Heaven,” I saw some seats that we could have sat in without being bothered by any bums. But is this fair? Should children and their heights-wary Moms have to be forced to sit at the tippy-top of a stadium just to avoid something that the announcer said not to do in the first place?

I’m not talking about taking BigBrother to the game this year. Or even next year. Our goal was the summer that he is four (two summers) as that will be his first year playing T-Ball (should he choose to actually stick with it after they start). And I realize that I can’t shield him from foul language for all eternity (have you heard what I say when I step on a tiny, sharp and pointy fire truck?) but I really don’t want him walking out of PNC Park calling everyone he sees a big-f-word bum!

True. To protect my child (and my ear drums) (and my sanity) (and the guy’s face), I could be the Language Police and go find security to whine about the guy’s language behind me. But do you know what? They don’t always eject those guys. Most often they just come and tell them to tone it down. Do you know then gets nasty things said to them? Yeah. The Language Police. It’s a lose-lose situation right there; one that surely won’t make the kid’s game more enjoyable.

And so, it looks like two summers from now, you will find our family in the tippy-top row. I guess we’ll find out if BigBrother has good eyesight, right? It’s a shame we don’t… and that heights make me squeamish. Oh, it’s all for the love of the game, right?

You Sir, Are the Bum! is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Yoi and Double Yoi No More is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.